


Fair Lad of the North

by Vulgarweed



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Lord of the Rings - Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crossdressing, F/F, Genderqueer, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-27
Updated: 2010-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-08 08:37:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a lull in the battlefield. Imagine a war for the sake of the world, in a universe where the light-colored folk of Rohan align to those of Narnia, and the Easterlings are the same people also called the Calormenes in a different account by a different historian. But their attitudes about gender, sexuality, and the proper role of women are all too similar. Prompt was: "horsewomen."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fair Lad of the North

Nothing is what it seems in this copse full of corpses, a quiet place on the edge of the battlefield where some had managed to crawl away to die.

There is a terrible silence around them now, but in the throb of her wounds Aravis at least knows herself to be alive, and that is enough. It was more than she had hoped for.

She sits up suddenly, with more fear than pain, when a pale face blots her sunlight.

"Pardon me," says the voice. "I watched you ride in the battle. You...did not seat your horse like an Easterling. I was struck with watching you and I hoped you had survived. I am glad to see it."

Aravis winces at the mention of her horse more than her wounds. "Hwin," she says, fighting tears.

"I saw your mare run when you were thrown. Like a fair wind through the grass she was. Like one of the horses of my country. Methinks we shall find her well when all this is done."

"I am not...an Easterling, unless that's what you call my people. You are fair like a Narnian..."

"I know not where that country lies. I am Dernhelm of Rohan."

Carefully Dernhelm lifts away Aravis's dented helmet, and gasps at what he sees. "You are no lad!"

Aravis's eyes narrow, cannily. "Nor are you, Dernhelm, if that is really your name."

Hard to say how she knew. Scent, perhaps. Lightness of touch. Way of moving upon life, small hands in big gloves, a lighter burden than a warhorse expects.

"Now I know why I watched thee so," breathes the girl whose long streaming hair, now freed, is pale golden. "I am Éowyn, and I rejoice with..."

Fierce kiss with light taste of bruises and blood. Slim thighs strongly muscled, built for gripping and directing; stiff gloves removed and small nimble fingers gone playing beneath stained leather and jingling mail. Wounds licked, sweat tasted, entangled loins in a slow ride, building to a panting gallop on the warming ground.

In another life, they would have worn silks, done this upon a perfumed bower. There is a joyful neighing sound in the chilly wind, not so far away.


End file.
